My father thought it bloody queer
by Elma MacBetsy
Summary: A oneshot about an event from House's youth that he just can't let go


**I was clearing out my hard drive, and came across this, a story I wrote a long time ago about House's youth. It's based on the poem 'My father thought it bloody queer' from The Book of Matches by Simon Armitage. Any Brits out there who read this might remember it from their English exams :P **

**Obviously neither House nor the poem are mine  
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_My father thought it bloody queer,_

_the day I rolled home with a ring of silver in my ear _

_half hidden by a mop of hair. _

Shutting the front door ever so quietly behind him, Greg began the daunting task of sneaking up to his bedroom without being seen, heard or otherwise sensed by his father. It'd been another all-nighter with a lot of friends and a lot more beer. The party itself had ended some hours earlier, but coming home drunk would be far worse than not coming home at all, he'd decided.

He'd made it across the hall and only just reached the stairs when a firm hand grabbed his shoulder. He stiffened immediately, feeling his heart starting to beat a little faster, but allowed himself to be spun around anyway. His father stood in front of him, arms now folded and a stony expression on his face. His mother was hovering in the kitchen doorway.

"Greg, honey? Where were you? Are you alright?" She seemed to be about to step towards him, but his father held up a hand.

"I'll handle this, Blythe." His tone left no room for arguments. Blythe frowned, hesitating for a few seconds, and then sighed. She turned back into the kitchen, pulling the door closed behind her. Greg squared his shoulders and kept his head up, a position that he hoped would let his father know that this time, he wasn't going down easy.

"Where were you?" His voice was calm, but it didn't fool Greg. One wrong move, one wrong word…

"Out." Keep answers simple. Don't give away more than necessary. Don't be too helpful, but don't give him an excuse either.

"Doing what?" At this, Greg paused. His hand twitched slightly as he fought the urge to flatten down the hair at the side of his head. It had been stupid – _really_ stupid. His friend had talked him into it, and it had seemed like a good idea at the time. But now…it hurt, it looked awful, and he just wanted to take the damn thing out as soon as possible.

"Stuff." He expected the clout to his head before it came, but it didn't hurt any less for it. He watched as his father drew in a breath, obviously preparing for a good, long, shout-y lecture, and then stopped. Before he could do anything, a hand shot out and pushed his hair out of the way, revealing the small silver ring. Instantly, Greg lost all of his previous confidence. His shoulders slumped and he dropped his chin, choosing now to stare resolutely at the carpeted floor. _Great_. Now he couldn't get rid of it, because _then_ it would be his father's victory.

"What," his father began, "is _that_ doing _there_?" Just say nothing. "Well? _Why_ is there an _earring_ in _your_ ear?" Nothingnothingnothing. "Are you a…a…_fucking__queer_? My son, in _women__'__s__jewellery_? What's next, high heels and stockings?"

"Only if I can borrow yours." Greg mentally winced. It was completely the wrong thing to say. He didn't even when flinch when the blow came this time. "It's the fashion!" He tried again.

"_You__'__ve__lost__your__head._"

His father reverted to the unsettling calmness from before as he leaned his face towards Greg's far closer than the latter was really comfortable with.

"_If__that__'__s__how__easily__you__'__re__led_

_you__should__'__ve__had__it__through__your__nose__instead._"

The hand went for the side of his head again, except this time reaching for the ring. Greg suddenly realised his father's intention, but had no time to prepare himself before the hoop was _yanked_ from his ear. For a few sickening moments, Greg honestly thought that his father was going to follow through with his previous comment. And then the pain hit him and he just yelled instead.

He heard the scraping of a chair in the kitchen, followed by footsteps, but it amounted to nothing; his mother had already learned that there was no point coming as long as his father was still there. He opened his eyes to his father's face, and was immediately horror-struck. The man was clutching the silver ring, now smeared with red, up high as though it was his trophy. He wasn't smiling – he never did – but there was a glint in his eye – amusement? – that grew, Greg thought, with his own fear. He managed to look for only a second more before he had to turn and _run_ up the stairs, straight to his bedroom.

He sat on his bed for several moments trying to process what just happened. The anger, the violence…neither should have shocked him. It'd been years; he was sure he was used to it now. But this wasn't a simple punishment or a reaction born from fury. _Sadism_, was the word that came to mind. And how was he supposed to cope with a sadistic father like that? He didn't have a clue.

He was pulled from his thoughts by the warm wetness steadily dripping onto his neck. He stood and pulled open his closet door to survey the damage in the mirror there.

"_Fuck_..." He muttered. It looked _awful_. He reached, almost absently, for a handful of tissues to try and stem the flow of blood. For all the good it would do. His earlobe was split in two. He knew the hole from the earring would have closed up fine on its own, but was the same true for a rip? He wasn't willing to risk it. A glance through his window told him that his father's car, and presumably his father with it, was gone for the day, so it was now safe enough to get his mother to take him to the doctor's. On his way out, he grabbed a wad of fresh tissues and wondered briefly if he would have a scar.

His first night in college, he knew what he had to do. He hadn't had the guts to do it while still living under his father's roof, but now…now he could. He _would_.

_And even then I hadn't had the nerve to numb _

_the lobe with ice, then drive a needle through the skin, _

_then wear a safety-pin. _

Greg's hand shook as he held the needle in a flame. He carefully lifted it to his ear, placing the point against the scar that had indeed formed a year earlier. But he couldn't seem to find the force needed to push it through the flesh. Trembling fingers suddenly couldn't keep their grip on the thin piece of metal and it fell to his desk. He bit his lip to hold back the sob fighting its way forwards. It was just a damn _earring_. It didn't _matter_. It shouldn't mean that much to him – it shouldn't mean _anything_. It wasn't weak, he told himself, to be unable to stab a hole in his body. A fear of pain was not a failure on his part. But it was another win for his father.

He stood, resolution steadily building inside of him. A new plan came to mind, involving the would-be tattooist who had the room across the hall. He _was_ going do this.

_It took a jeweller's gun _

_to pierce the flesh, and then a friend _

_to thread a sleeper in _

Said would-be tattooist was only too happy to puncture his ear, although slightly confused as to why Greg hadn't just done it himself, and even more confused as to why he was holding back tears the whole time. It wasn't like him, he wanted to explain, to cry. He couldn't, however, have articulated what exactly it was about his left ear that affected him so deeply. In this instance, he was more than happy to let the neighbour jump to his own conclusions, probably that Greg was scared it would _hurt._

Greg made sure that the smallest stud possible was inserted into the hole. So small, in fact, as to be almost invisible from a distance, especially given its position on the scar running down the lobe. This again confused the piercer – why go to so much trouble, why do something so obviously upsetting to you, if you then try and hide it after?

And again, Greg didn't really have an answer. All he knew was that the earring looked just as terrible now as it had the first time.

_and where it slept _

_the hole became a sore, became a wound, and wept. _

But once it was done, it was done. And that was where it stayed, even though he hated it every second, ever minute, every day. But how could he remove it? How, when every time he saw his father, which admittedly wasn't often, he was ordered to remove it?

What he hated even more than that, though, was seeing himself in the mirror. There would be a flash on the glass: his earring. Except it wasn't _his_ earring. It was a small silver ring, coated with blood. And his panicked gaze would move to his face. Except it wasn't _his_ face. It was a sadistic smile with a gleam in the eyes that grew with his own panic. And his father's hand would move towards his ear. Except it wasn't _his__father__'__s_ hand. It was _his_hand, and he couldn't stop it until he'd almost torn open his ear once more. And then his eyes would water, and he'd want to scream and yell and smash things because it wasn't _fair_ that out of everything that had ever happened between him and his father, _this_ was what stuck with him.

_At twenty-nine, _

he still hates the silver stud in his year and he still hates looking at himself in the mirror. Nothing changes, until one day it does.

He glances at his reflection, notices the flash, the blood, the smile, the gleam. But this time he makes a realisation. He _wants_to take the earring out. He's devoted ten years to winning this one battle, but the truth is, he lost the day he went across the hall to the would-be tattooist.

His father won a long time ago, and so

_it comes as no surprise to hear _

_my own voice breaking like a tear, released like water,_

_cried from way back in the spiral of the ear. _

This time, when his father's hand, except it isn't _his__father__'__s_ hand, it's _his_ hand, moves towards his ear, he doesn't stop it. His fingers find purchase on the stud – probably easier to do, he thinks, with a ring, and he allows himself a little pride at this. He pulls. It comes. And it hurts just as much as it did the first time. It bleeds just as much. But no one smiles.

The words sound again. He can see his lips moving, but it's not his voice he hears; instead, an echo of the instruction he'd received every Christmas since he was nineteen.

'_If__I__were__you,_

_I__'__d__take__it__out__and__leave__it__out__next__year._'

In the end, he's not any happier for removing the earring. It is not the life changing event he'd somehow always expected it to be.

He thought he could accept the loss to his father. But, perhaps for the first time, Greg is wrong.

He never visits his parents' home again.


End file.
